A long, rainy day
by Guille van Cartier
Summary: Clopin falls to a drunken sleep one long, rainy day in Paris while in his caravan. An hour later he awakens to find his caravan, along with himself, being dragged out of Paris by people he doesn't know. Can he get back home with the caravan? RR.
1. Tired

A/N: I decided to take a break from the Hawaiian and the Hunchback for a while so I came up with this! Right after I joined DeviantArt that is. Well, it's about Clopin, and I'm not sure if I caught his character in this one. Well, you've got to help me there. Read and send me reviews (constructive criticism is most welcome) and I'll be happy. And, my writing will hopefully improve. I now shall be known as the crispy-gypsy! Fear me!  
  
Chapter One  
  
Clopin lay down across the floor of his wagon, staring up at the curve of the roof that now sheltered him from the drops that fell outside. He gazed unblinking, listening silently to the pitter-patter of the falling rain, allowing the monotonous sound to lull him into drowsiness. Of course, it wasn't the only thing that helped him reach his dreamland. The shit-load of alcohol he had forced down also helped quite a bit.  
It wasn't usual that Monsieur Le Roi de Gitan Clopin Trouillefou drank himself silly (he swore several times before that it only happened once a week), though the great stock of wine and liquor bottles he had hidden in his caravan rather contradicted this claim. But, now he had found a great reason to drink as much as he wanted, which he did. That was rather evident by the great many glass flasks that littered the wooden floor, rolling across the planks and clinking against one another.  
Clopin hiccuped and rolled to his side, disturbing even more of the green glass bottles and sending several of them crashing against the wall. He flinched at the sudden loudness and groaned quietly.  
"Damn it all," he muttered, hiccuping yet again. "I have to get back to the court."  
He tried to get himself up, lifting up the top half of his body just a little off the floor, supporting himself on his right elbow. His whole body was shaking terribly and it seemed that he would be unable to move much. And it was the truth; seconds later he fell back onto the floor, hitting his head, hiccuping, laughing, and cursing all at the same time.  
"Monsieur," he told himself, trying to keep his heavy eyelids from closing, "you are an idiot. You come out to work on a day that you knew wouldn't be good, you get upset at that fact when you realize that it was stupid of you to come out (damn you), and you drink yourself so silly you can't even sit up. Look at yourself. You're having trouble staying awake. You have to back to the Court of Miracles! It's your entire damn fault. No, don't try to blame that cursed rain and stop talking to yourself. I'm getting a headache."  
And he coughed and sighed, then turned back to the ceiling with drowsy eyes. The damn rain. Why the hell did it do that to him, dripping and dropping for the whole goddamned week? Hell, he would have given up long before had he not always had that optimistic little outlook that made him think that it would stop. That outlook was what made him walk all the way from the court to his wagon, which he had kept out in the rain for three days straight. That outlook was what kept him waiting for about an hour, looking at the sky through the open window, waiting for the rain to stop. But, then again, that outlook was also what caused him to close all windows and doors, and what lead to his being on the floor and hiccuping as he thought over his woes.  
"Always the optimistic one, aren't we?" he asked himself after this thought. "Forever looking up with closed eyes, blind to the gray clouds, when we should have been watching were we were stepping. Maybe then, we would have noticed how wet our shoes were getting and would've been smart enough to realize that it would've been better just to stay indoors for the day. You're such an idiot! Be realistic at least once in your life!"  
It had been a thing that he had done several days prior (though this was the first time that he had drank so much), for there seemed to be a perpetual cloud of rain hanging over Paris. It was evident, everyday that he left the comfort of the Court (well, as comfortable as the court could be), out into the soggy outdoors on the slippery cobbles of the narrow streets. Always the same talk to himself, trying to force himself to be more practical, threatening to never again think that same way. But, of course, this was all blabber, and it wasn't a very practical thing to listen to one's self when one was drunk (even if this drunken musing was being somewhat accurate).  
Everyday, he stared out of his window, out at the soggy streets and the dim skies, which the rays of the sun barely peeped through. The rain...that was what kept the light hidden and the children in their drafty houses, away from his stories. As you can think, he was not making much money because of this. The other gypsies had remained in the drier (or should the term be 'less damp'?) recesses of their hideaway. And, behind his back of course, talking amongst themselves about his enthusiasm in the beginning of the day, and laughing greatly to themselves when he came back, grumbling and sodden.  
No one seemed to want to be outside during the shower. Clopin saw little everyday, though he noticed several women gathering beneath the awning or under a doorway, pointing and giggling flirtatiously at him. Clopin would lean on one elbow and smile at them, and their whispers and giggles would grow. God knows that his usually...erm, "bold" mannerisms were dampened by the rain, and the thought of a few good flirts lifted his spirits little. And, besides, if they were the type of women that he thought them to be, then he would most probably have to pay them at the end of their meeting. That was not going to help him at all.  
Clopin felt his eyes closing, and a great yawn came from his mouth and he twisted upon the floor, searching for a comfortable position. Hell, he couldn't get up anyway. Might as well take a good nap before limping his way back to the court. That way, there was more of a chance of him getting there anyway before he passed out on the damned streets and drowned himself in the freaking rain. He shook his head at the thought, laughing just a snicker at himself, then turned on his side. He took off his mask, gloves, and hat, cushioned his head with his arm, snorted and closed his eyes. Seconds later, he was in a soundless sleep, dreaming away of rainless days full of song and children's laughter. Days that, hopefully, would be coming once again some time soon.  
  
Clopin was forced awake much later on in the day, and he sat up with many a curse leaping straight from his lips. The bottles were rolling across the floor and hitting each other, not to mention him, and his head was bouncing against the floor from the bumps outside. Plus, the sound of horse hooves and whip snaps were getting on his nerves.  
Every one of these nuisances had actually been going on for a pretty long time, going all the way back to who knows when, but Clopin had ignored them at first. He was much too engrossed in the pleasant dreams of children and puppet shows. But, now that his dream was stretching a little bit too long, these annoyances were becoming, bit by bit, more obvious, right up until his awakening.  
"Damn," he muttered, rubbing the bump on his head that throbbed with the beat of his heart. "What inconsiderate loon would ride a horse along this way while I was asleep?"  
This statement was a bit sarcastic, but he wondered anyway. The clip clopping had been going on for about an hour now, if his estimates were correct. Either there was a whole cavalcade of horses coming down the way, or the same horse found it great exercise to trot in place. And what was with the bumping of his wagon? He could barely hear the rain beating down on the roof with all the hubbub. He shook his head and leaned against the wall, pulling on his gloves and tying his mask to his face with groggy slowness. He sighed putting his hat atop his head and yawning. Supporting himself against the walls of the wagon, he got to his feet. His knees wobbled just a smidgen, but at least he could stand. And, later on, he learned that he could walk. Excellent.  
Clopin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and made his way to the back of the wagon, where the door was set, closed. And, yawning for the last time of the day, he straightened out the front of his shirt, pulled down his cowl, pushed open the door and stepped forward...and almost fell right onto the muddy streets of the outskirts.  
"What the hell!" He screamed, stepping backward, watching as the ground beneath the caravan actually moved, right over the mud and grass, through puddles and dirt. This wasn't how it was when he fell asleep! At least, that wasn't how he remembered it to be! What in the name of all that was holy was going on here?  
"What was that?"  
Clopin stopped hyperventilating and listened quietly to what appeared to be a man's voice. It came from the front of the wagon.  
"I'm not sure," a woman replied. "It sounded like someone cursing."  
"Do you think someone's following us?" the first person asked. Clopin didn't hear the reply, but didn't much care when he heard the man's response. "Well, go check it out! There might be one of those heathens in this damned wagon."  
"What do I do if there is?"  
The gypsy heard a sound much like a sword being pulled from a hilt, a sort of slicing noise.  
"Kill him."  
Clopin started, and paled just a bit. He had half a mind to just jump out of the wagon into the mud and hightail it right out of there, but, taking a little guess from the trotting and the neighs, they were on horses. And even then, Monsieur Clopin the light-footed could not outrun a horse. Besides, they had his caravan, though he did not know what they intended to do with it. He would never allow them to do such a thing! No one steals from the Gypsy King, no one!  
But there was little time to muse over whatever he was to do, for the caravan stopped, and the sound of someone coming off of a horse could be heard just feet away. Clopin realized his predicament yet again, and looked desperately around for anything that might assist in his escape. Nothing in sight. Not a rock or a tree; not even a hill to hide behind. He was in some deep shit now.  
And nearby the sound of approaching footsteps, tromping through the thick mud, could be heard.  
  
A/N: Okay, I'm going to end it here for now. I've got to do something right now, so I'm going to have to continue it later on. Hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy a later chapter, which I hope will be less short and crappy! Well, bye-bye!  
  
-Guille van Cartier, Crispy-Gypsy 


	2. A sister and her brother

A/N: Okee dokee day, here is the second chapter to this story that I am writing. Yeah. Okay, well, I've got to say thank you for those who have been kind enough to read the first chapter, and those who had enough compassion to actually review afterwards. You know who you are. Okay, just to tell you before you continue, Clopin is no longer dead drunk. He sobered up, 'kay? Okay. Now that you understand, lets continue with the story. Please. Read and Review.  
  
Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Disclaimer: Clopin does not belong to me. I would be a much happier person if he did.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Cassandra rubbed as much sleep out of her eyes as possible, yawning and cursing the rain as it fell in heavier and heavier sheets from the grayed heavens. They, she and her brother, had been traveling along the sodden fields for quite some time already, having little protection from the dampness other than a couple of cloaks that they had enough common sense to bring along. She loathed the rain and the horrible smells that it drew from the dirt and weeds. Hell, she hated the outdoors altogether. She had learned to tolerate it well enough, taking the time to do her chores or learn to ride horses and what not, but these little "excursions" that her elder brother, Malique, had forced on her was not something that she enjoyed. But, being the youngest in the family, not to mention the only daughter, she had to listen to what her fat-ass brother told her to do.  
The old mare that she rode on quietly neighed as it forced its way through the thick mud and grasses that formed the fields, a ways from Paris, where they had left what seemed hours before. Behind them, wheels creaking from the strain of plowing through the muck, was a painted caravan, with the sound of clinking bottles coming from within. Her brother and the great white stallion that their father loved so much lead the wagon along the way, frowning at the drops of rain that dampened their coats (both cloth and fur) rather uncomfortably.  
"Damn rain," Malique muttered, glaring at the sky as if it would make the raindrops stop. "Why did it have to start on the day that we chose to do this?"  
Cassandra rolled her eyes at her brother's remark and drew the coarse fabric of the cloak about her. "We?" she asked, her voice quiet so as to not draw any antagonism from the fat man beside her. "I specifically remember you being the only one wanting to go on this goddamned trip. Not only that, but I also recall me suggesting the perhaps we do this whole damn thing on another day. And I recall you saying that the rain would stop eventually. Perhaps even before we got the wagon out of the city."  
Malique glanced sideways at his sister and shook his head.  
"You lack enthusiasm," he told her. "Be more confident and assertive. Enjoy the trip. After all, this is for a good cause."  
"It's hard to enjoy something that you are forced to deal with," she muttered angrily, forcing the many 'damn yous' and 'shut the hell ups' that she had boiling inside of her.  
"If you'll listen to whatever I say then I want you to be more assertive," he said, that normal grin coming across his fat lips. "Show some enthusiasm."  
"Don't toy with me, Malique," she growled.  
"Come on," he said, pushing her arm, nearly forcing her off the old horse. "How's about a smile?"  
"Get away, Malique!"  
"Smile, Cassandra, or I'll tell father to double your work time."  
"You're such a child, Malique," she said, trying to get the black mare to move to the side, away from her brother.  
"Smile, damn it, or I'll make it so you'll have to come with me every single time I go out and teach these gypsies a lesson!"  
Malique's eyes burned with a fire that had strayed far from the joking shine that they had just the seconds ago that he had started. He was like that, the bastard, housing a short temper and everything else that made a horrible brother, along with an influence on their parents that was like nothing else. Cassandra frowned horribly, then lifted the corners of her mouth so much it was frightening. Malique shuddered at the sight, and coughed into his hand, looking away as quickly as possible.  
"That's a lot less better than I though it would be. Goddamn it, stop doing that Cassandra. It only makes you uglier."  
Cassandra let her mouth droop, despite her relief, and forced her horse to quicken just a bit to get a further from her brother. He was so goddamned stupid sometimes. 'Teaching these gypsies a lesson'? What the hell was that? Well, she really had never asked before, just going along with her brother, dragging along with them many wagons like the such and setting them on fire miles and miles from the outskirts. He was awful that way; she guessed he housed the same hatred towards the race like the many others in Paris. She didn't mind them much, though raised like everyone else she knew to hate them. But, perhaps it hadn't yet then sunk in. After all, she was only twelve, and still very impressionable.  
Suddenly, a loud shriek came up from behind, resembling something of a man's voice, forcing her out of her thoughts and back into the dreary reality of the rain-swept afternoon. Malique straightened up on the stallion, listening.  
"What was that?" he asked.  
"I'm not sure," Cassandra said, alarmed. "But, it sounded like someone cursing."  
"Do you think someone's following us?" Malique asked, frowning, his eyes growing shifty.  
Cassandra shrugged her shoulders. She only partially cared about that; now that she thought about it, why would someone want to follow a gypsy wagon? Her brother sighed, and slapped her across the shoulder. Cassandra held in all screams.  
"Well, go check it out! There might be one of those heathens in the wagon!"  
Cassandra glowered at her brother, not wanting to have to trek through the mud, no matter how short a distance it was.  
"What if there is?" She asked. It sounded as if she didn't want to go at all, which was exactly her feeling at the moment. She eyed the great thick stew of mud and stalks sinking in deeply with the impressions of their horses' hooves.  
Malique rolled his eyes, the answer being obvious to him, and he flung the cloak from over his round belly, and reached for the hilt of a small dagger that hung from his leather belt. The blade shrieked against the lining of the small scabbard in the most unpleasant of ways, and he tossed the dagger to his sister. Cassandra, luckily, was able to grab the wrapped hilt instead of having the painful surprise of gripping the sharp edged metal.  
"Kill him," he answered, and he pulled the reins of the white stallion that led the caravan. With a neigh and huff, the strong horse came to a stop. Cassandra, with a sigh, followed suit and made her mare stop her way. She jumped down of the horse, and tried to force herself through the mud, which, she discovered, was a little worse than she had expected. It turned to be somewhat of a relief, however, for she was not sure whether or not if she would have the courage to actually murder a gypsy. But she didn't say so. Never in front of her brother would she claim her cowardice.  
  
Clopin watched as the young woman trudged down the side of the caravan, collecting mud, water, and grass blades on the hem of her simple skirt and cloak. She was taking a long time, he noticed, but either from anxiety or mud, he was not to be sure. She was mumbling and cursing the rain (something about it, along with her brother, 'shitting up her whole goddamned day'), and, gripped in her short fingers, was a knife. The very same that he had suspected to have heard just moments before.  
"She wouldn't kill a gypsy," he thought to himself leaning on one elbow. "She's too innocent for that. Look at the way she moves with her short little legs. Poor little girl, listening to that slob of a man who didn't even himself have the courage to confront me."  
Not that Monsieur Clopin actually did wish for the large man to discover him. He was still feeling rather light-headed from the amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier. He was sober, of course, but he would've preferred it if he had been able to sleep off all of the drunken effects, rather than having to force it out of his system at the arrival of a dilemma.  
The little girl had finally reached the door of the wagon, her fingers grasping the dagger with tighter fingers. Clopin watched as she stepped onto the small set of wooden steps that led to the entrance, and flinched somewhat when he noticed how much mud she trailed all over them before finally reaching the door. It wasn't that he minded dirt so horribly (though he did not enjoy having his clothes stained with it frequently) but he was in already more or less a goddamned horrible mood, and the thought of having to clean it up threw a nasty shiver down his spine. So many hours spent on hands and knees, soaked with water and soap!  
The little girl knocked on the door as if expecting someone to open it for her, then kicked it open with one muddy foot, and baring the dagger as if she were about to stab somebody right through the chest. She stopped, obviously noticing no one within, and, after several minutes searching the meager furniture (if you would call it that) she walked out of the door, closing it behind her, and making her return trip to the black horse that waited for her on the opposite end of the caravan.  
"Well?" asked the man, receiving the thin blade back and placing it in the hilt at his side. "Were there any of those heathens?"  
"Did you hear any screams?" she asked sharply, replacing herself upon the worn saddle of the mare's back. "If you didn't get that," she added, "the answer is no, luckily."  
"Luckily? What did you mean by that?" the elder asked, glaring at her from beneath his blue cloak. "Are you a gypsy supporter or something, Cassandra?"  
"No," came her hasty reply. "That's not what I meant Malique."  
"Then what the hell did you mean?" Malique asked rudely.  
"Nothing," she muttered, looking down.  
"The hell that was nothing," he said. "No really what the hell did you mean?"  
"Why the hell do you care, Malique?" Cassandra responded angrily. "No body was there, okay? What does it matter what I said?"  
"Cassandra," he said, "we aren't going anywhere until you tell me what the hell you meant by luckily!" Malique's eyes were shining with an angry and violent light. Clopin clicked his tongue as quietly as he could and shook his head as he leaned on his elbows, noticing how much Malique wanted to hurt Cassandra. Those threats were a cover, he suspected. Something used before his parents at home to conceal the truer, more physical intimidation that he was really lusting for. He had gotten used to it, perhaps, and used it even without the household.  
Cassandra seemed to flush at the remark and bent her pale faced downward, allowing the large hood of her cloak to conceal her face.  
"I just meant that maybe they were armed. You know, with a dagger or something. You know how they are..."  
Clopin sighed. He rolled over from his spot and quietly turned on his side silently and felt his waist. He shook his head.  
"I'm afraid I left mine at home on my other belt," he thought.  
Malique smiled and spurred his horse's side.  
"I don't blame you for being afraid, Cassandra. After all, those damn heathens would not even skewer you without a second thought, they would probably eat you afterward."  
Cassandra shuddered at the statement, but was frowning at her brother in defiance. "I wasn't afraid," she told him.  
Malique shrugged, smiling knowingly and rolling his eyes in disbelief. He spurred the steed yet again, yelling for it to go forward, and the caravan began moving again. Cassandra followed, though rather hesitantly, flicking the leather reins and making her horse continue forward on its way. Clopin watched her as she stared down at the muddy ground, feeling sympathy somewhat, for he loved children very much. But, he was more engrossed in his own situation, where he was just barely out of sight at the moment. If either of them looked at a certain angle they were sure to spot him flattening himself against the painted boards. And, not only that, but he had to keep absolute quiet, unlike how he had acted beforehand. He groaned inwardly and rested his tired head against his forearms. There wasn't much he could do.  
"I could just jump off and leave while nobody's watching," he thought to himself as he pondered over the choices he had. "But that would leave my poor caravan in the hands of the fat man and the self-esteem deprived young woman. And God knows what the hell they would do with it."  
He closed his eyes, readying himself for another, hopefully silent lapse of consciousness. This didn't prove too easy, for the raindrops continued to annoy him and he felt as if he wanted to scream into the air. Damn it! Now that he had the time to think about it, he felt damp and uncomfortable, lying on his stomach while in his godforsaken wet clothes. He did another inward groan but dared not move from his spot, letting the rain drip and soak into his clothing.  
It was then that he had finally the sense to regret hiding on the roof.  
  
A/N: Okay, that's the end for know. I'm kind of in a creative speed bump, here, and my writing is terrible right now. And that whole Cassandra and Malique thing...I don't know why I did it in their POV. I bet after that half of you people were thinking that I was an idiot and have no more interest in my poor story. Oh well. Thank you, by the way, Clopin Trouilefou. You've helped me a lot and I still don't think I need anxiety pills. (or anger management, as I've mentioned before.) 


	3. Plan

**A/N: Okee dokee, the third chapter. It's been a while huh? Well, sorry 'bout that... I've been.... Er, busy. Clopin is getting hard for me to keep in character. I keep getting confused, so sorry if he sounds weird in this chapter. READ AND REVIEW! I have nothing else to say.**

Chapter Three 

Someone was watching them.

Cassandra knew it for a fact; she felt it in her bones and skin and the two points in her neck that she felt the two eyes burning into. She pulled the course cloak closer about her, shifting her eyes from one edge of the plain to the other. Nothing before her could be discerned as important, and all that she could see behind was the empty desolation that they had passed, unchanged but for the wheel and horse tracks that they had left in their wake. Only a few squawking birds could be heard from their perches on the few tiny woods that appeared upon the flat land every half mile or so in the distance. Her nose could smell nothing but the sharp odor of wet grass, mud, and the occasional horse droppings. It was nothing but a feeling, and not what one would consider true either. It wasn't a physical sort of "I've got some guys fingers on my ass" feeling, but more of a "Some guy's eyeing my ass" feeling.

Cassandra was understandably uncomfortable. It had been there, that sense, that feeling, for so long a time already, and she had ignored it as naught more than an irritating itch on her nape. But soon it evolved to more than just an irritating degree and it scared her more than she would've found likable. She had tried to scratch it away with her fingers, and she soon came to realize it wasn't an itch, nor was it any sort of rash. She was frightened. She wanted it to stop.

She took a glance at her elder brother, who sat, whistling as if it were naught more than just a daily stroll for him. He didn't notice it. Cassandra knew that he wasn't a good enough actor to fake any courage.

She wondered whether or not it would be a wise decision to alert him to her suspicions. She knew Malique all too well; he probably would strike her for even mentioning it. But she couldn't take it much longer. God, it was so hard against her neck, as if an awl were drilling into her skin. It was too much for her. Much too much. Which explains why her fingers began to reach out and curl around her brother's sleeve.

"What the hell... let go of my shirt, idiot!" Malique screamed, striking her hand in annoyance. Cassandra didn't let go.

"Malique," she said, fright in her voice, "Malique, I think we're being followed."

"What did you say?"

"Malique," Cassandra repeated. She felt a sudden odd addition to the feeling, as if more concentration was being put into the glare. She felt a shiver drive down her spine and she grabbed her brother's sleeve ever the tighter, tugging it harder. "Malique, we're being followed!"

"WHAT?" Malique screeched, pulling the reins of the white stallion with strength unneeded. The horse whinnied in pain from having his head forced upward, but came to a sharp stop, the wooden slats that attached the caravan to him nearly snapping off. Cassandra had to stop her mare as well, though she executed this with much more grace, and she even had to round about to replace itself beside her brother's steed.

Malique reached out and grabbed Cassandra by the collar, shaking her, an odd sort of fright glowing in his usually overly cocky eyes.

"Are you serious?" He asked, his voice a mere shaky whisper. "Where is it? Is it a gypsy? How long has it been following us?"

He glanced backward at the plain behind him, and, seeing nothing, he strove to see if it was perhaps behind the wagon that they were dragging. Cassandra stared up at him with wonder, not sure why he was taking it such a way.

"Where is it?" Malique asked, understandably seeing nothing. "Where did you see it?"

"I didn't see it, Malique," Cassandra said, shaking her head. "I never said I saw it. I felt it. It's somewhere, somewhere behind us, waiting. It wants to do something, I know it does. I feel it; it's like a snake waiting for the right time to bite."

As she spoke, she turned her head to the expanse behind, scanning the distance for perhaps a new clue that she and her brother had overlooked. Again, there was nothing. What was it then? She asked herself. Was it invisible? Could it be hiding in some unknown pit or crevasse, maybe watching them from the sky? She turned her eyes half upward, and caught something, barely perceived to the side. It was on the caravan....

"What the...." What was that? She began to turn her head for a better look. But, before she could, Malique, angry at being alarmed at such a false thing, struck her hard across the back of the head. She screamed in pain and turned her head downward, tears spilling from her eyes, curses spilling from her lips.

"What was that for?" She cried. Malique struck her across the shoulder, the force decreased but the anger still burning with the connection.

"You bitch!" He yelled angrily, hitting her over and over again. "You did that on purpose! You wanted to make a fucking fool of me! Didn't expect this, did you, idiot?"

"I wasn't lying, Malique!" She yelled angrily, pushing him angrily. "I really did feel it there! It's still there actually, and you can't say anything otherwise!"

"Don't drag me into your shit, Ass-andra!" Malique said in an angry yell.

"The only reason you're so upset is because you're scared of gypsies!" Cassandra yelled angrily. "That's the only reason you drag the caravans out here to burn them! You're scared of them! You're a coward!"

Malique was angry, very very angry, at what his sister had just said. The sad thing was that these words rang somewhat true, but he would NEVER, never EVER admit to such a thing. Cassandra was soon sent flying off the saddle of her mare, hard onto the grass below, a dark footprint set across her stomach. She was gasping for air when he jumped from his seat and approached her angrily.

"Don't you fucking DARE say that about me ever again, do you hear me, Ass-andra?" Malique said angrily, planting a heavy boot on her stomach. "If you want to live past your twelfth year you will shut the HELL up and don't even THINK about things like that, you hear!"

"Why the HELL do you bring me on these trips?" Cassandra asked angrily. "It's horrible! I hate it! You don't have to do this, you know. You could've just left me at home and tell me stories later! It's enough that you _bring_ the gypsies home and torture them!"

"It's educational, Cassandra," Malique said, a still angry smile coming to his lips. He took his foot off her stomach and dragged her up by the collar. "Now get back on your fucking horse and let's get this over with."

And, so, with bruises and scrapes to her body and her pride, Cassandra replaced herself on her horse and they both continued on their way.

* * *

Clopin remained atop the caravan, mentally clicking his tongue as he watched the sight below him. Oh well, thought he, he'll deal with the bastard soon enough. Poor Cassandra, he thought, shaking his head. She _had_ to have an idiot for a brother. He wouldn't have been half concerned, but then Malique had to go and be violent as well. Clopin felt sympathy for her, despite the crime against him that she was then committing, He always had a weakness for children.

Anyway, it was a close call. He had nearly fallen off the roof of the caravan when he had heard what Cassandra had said, and he was nearly tossed off the wagon when Malique reacted to it. And he could've sworn that the girl had seen him, if not briefly... He'd have to be a little bit more careful next time.

The vagrant king wiggled uncomfortably in the pool of rainwater that had accumulated beneath him, feeling the lump that was his hat push into his stomach. Curses clung in his mouth, biting viciously into his tongue, waiting for a single chance to jump out and strike. But, of course, that time wasn't going to come until who the hell knows when, which made Clopin ever the more crankier. Yes, cranky. First of all, had it been regular circumstances, he would've been able to regain his caravan in a second. But, he had to go and drink himself unconscious and now, because of that, he had one hell of a headache. His mind wasn't working properly. Another thing, he was wet... soaked straight passed the cloth down to the bone. He felt his skin wrinkling and pruning as it absorbed the rain, which still, by the way, insisted on falling on him. Not to mention, he was crushing his hat. One would think that that wouldn't be a reason to drive someone, but so many things had already accumulated, so it didn't matter. And hell, he liked that hat.

Clopin was trying desperately to regain his bearings, and, more importantly, stay awake. Hell knew that if he fell asleep, god forbid, he'd start snoring. It was a thing he didn't want to admit anytime soon... at least not to anyone he KNEW, or anyone else who wasn't deaf for that matter... well, anyone who wasn't deaf or WAS deaf and could lip read, or anyone who was able to... Clopin shook his head wearily. Damn it. His mind was wandering again. Where was he? Oh yes... and then he'd probably get caught and killed, or whatever...

He already had an idea plotted through, and it was a simple one, in a way. Clopin decided that he would distract the two at first, then steal back the caravan. Had it just been Malique, he would've just knocked the damned bastard off his horse and spur off. But Cassandra was there, and she definitely was the more responsible and clear-headed of the two. Clopin knew that she would probably be keeping an eye out, so he had better be cautious with the mission.

Clopin groaned inwardly as he continued. He would have to think up a distraction. He hadn't any fireworks or powder explosives that he usually used on his disappearing acts, and he hadn't any materials in hand. That was, other than a few spools of thread, some fabric, the stick he used to hit little Puppet with, Puppet and his friends, needles of course, and a few apples and such that he kept for a snack in a compartment of his trunk.

I guess I'll just have to do what I do best, Clopin thought, sighing quietly. Charm, beguile, entertain... cheat. He smiled. Whatever the hell worked.

Now all he had to do was think up some form of entertainment... Puppets? No... no, Malique wouldn't care, and Cassandra seemed a little too serious for that sort of thing. Story telling was acceptable through out the ages, so he would go with that... But would they accept _just_ a story? He knew how easily some people were bored to sleep if it wasn't told in the _right_ way. He didn't doubt his capabilities; he knew he could pull it off. But it was so dull...so...blah. It needed a little ostentation. A song perhaps? Yes! A song would do perfectly! And of course, a little choreography joined to it... But then... what story would he tell? What song would he sing? What dance would he dance? It had to be a new one of course. No old story or song would do for this situation. Actually, it would've done perfectly, but it was against Clopin's nature. He hated monotony, though he lived a life of it.

Oh, what the hell was he doing? He was over complicating things! He could just pluck a tune from the great abundance he had in remembrance and just sing it! But, he knew he wouldn't. He knew he couldn't. It needed to be new, and worthy. It had to be good enough for his audience, but most importantly of all, for him. Otherwise, he would be unhappy and mess the whole situation up!

Oh, damn the whole fucking situation to hell! If it hadn't been raining for so long, and he hadn't been an idiot and walk out beside the fact, he wouldn't have drunk himself unconscious, and let them steal his caravan! And if they hadn't stolen the caravan, he wouldn't be lying in discomfort flat against the curve of his roof, soaked straight down to the fucking bone, trying to think up some sort of god damned plan, because he's too picky to just do whatever! He was angry, soaking, crushing his favorite hat, and if he didn't think up some sort of story or song soon, his caravan was going to be burnt to the ground and he probably discovered and killed. Because, he was fast, but he wasn't well enough to get away from two people on horseback. If buildings and such had surrounded him as in Paris, it would've been a piece of cake! But NO... What the hell kind of adventure did he get himself stuck in?

Suddenly an idea struck him like a bolt of forked lightening, and he felt a smile curl upon his face. Yes.... Yes! That would be perfect! He knelt down, laughing inwardly, an impish shine in his ebony eyes. He figured it out. He would pull it off soon enough. But now for the song. He could just pull out a tune... he knew that he wouldn't be able to create a new melody in time. So, rifling through his mind for a good tune to fit the story, the smile became ever the wider. Good tune, good idea, wonderful story! He would be able to do this.

Clopin held back so many excited giggles, and cast an unseen but surreptitious glance down at the two unsuspecting gypsy-haters. Great fun was in store.

* * *

It was already past sun set when the two had stopped, the great red circle of the sun sinking down past the mountains that lined the distant horizon. The stars were twinkling in the sky like a thousand watchful eyes in the blue ether, and the clouds that had dimmed the world gray that day had now diminished, as well as the rain. The pour had come to a stop.

Cassandra was ordered to gather firewood from a small cluster of trees that formed a wood near their spot, and she followed orders, still aching from her wounds. She had come back with _just_ enough wood for a decent fire, though Malique said otherwise and gave her a cuff on the ear for that. He wasn't afraid of showing true anger now. She had pulled it out of him.

Soon, the campfire was blazing and Malique unhitched two stools from the back of the stallion. He pulled two cans of food from his bag and opened one deftly with a knife, sitting before the fire, choosing to eat before he executed his task.

Cassandra took her own stool and stood on it, brushing the hair of her mare as it picked a few stalks of grass from the mud.

"How about you do that to my horse too, Cassandra?" Malique asked, glancing at her, but continuing to eat.

"Why don't you do it yourself? It's your responsibility."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Malique asked. "It almost sounded as if you were refusing. Get it done or else you'll have another footprint, this one on your face."

Cassandra lifted her head up from her work, frowning spitefully at her brother, cursing him extensively within the confines of her mind. Malique was being an ass again, that was for sure. Poor horse, she thought, glancing at the stallion as he tromped his feet back and forth against the mud. He did need a good brushing. Not to mention he was undoubtedly hungry. He hadn't eaten that day just yet... besides a few sparse blades of grass from the mud. Malique hadn't been kind enough, negligible jackass that he was, to pack some horse feed. The domesticated horse had been pampered extensively and the taste of wet, dirt-sullied grass must have left an uncomfortable taste in his mouth. She wondered if there was any food inside of the stolen wagon; after all, there had been numerous bottles, and it was known that gypsies spent long times inside during their travels. Maybe in that chest in the corner she might find something suitable for the poor equine...

She decided that it was worth a look. After all, Malique was just going to burn the damn thing down. Cassandra took a hop from the stool that she was standing on, shuddering involuntarily at the sound of her feet sinking slowly into the mud. She frowned in irritation. She had just about enough of all of this. She stared angrily into the distance, trying to rid her mind of all of the curses and screams that wanted to break free. Damn it all, damn it all, damn it all! Her angry eyes scanned the horizon, and she did her best to ignore the image of her brother, which just seemed to anger her ever the more.

It was then she spotted him. A shadow amongst shadows, barely illuminated by the flickering flames of the campfire. She was able to discern colors, bright but dimmed by the encompassing darkness, and the first thought that popped into her mind was of gypsy spells and curses that might be cast on her and her brother for the task that they were going to execute then. She knew it was a gypsy, she knew it from the clothes that it wore and the eerie aura that she could sense from it. She knew he was there for his caravan, and she knew that he owned those eyes... those two eyes that had been boring so mercilessly into the base of her skull the hours before. It was looking at the both of them now, staring from beneath the brim of a torn and crumpled hat, silent, but nevertheless frightening. Cassandra paled instantly.

"M-m-malique..." She stuttered out, trying to grab her brother's sleeve without taking her sight away from the quiescent creature before her. Her hand missed, unfortunately, swatting the can from her brother's fingers.

"Cassandra, you idiot!" He screeched in anger, giving her a sour look. "Damn it! I can't eat that shit! That's it, I'm taking yours!"

And, with greedy hands, he reached into the pack and pulled her can from inside. He immediately opened it with his knife and started upon it like a famished dog, though he was far from that, one can assure you. Cassandra shook her head, apathetic to her brother's actions at the moment, her eyes still glued on the unmoving, brightly clad shadow. She couldn't find her voice. It was lost in fright somewhere within her, and it didn't seem to want to reveal itself to her. So, she stood staring at the figure in the dark, motionless, as he did the same. But, moments later, she saw it move, taking a step toward their fire. That was when she had discovered she could talk. Or, in this case, scream.

"Malique!" She shrieked suddenly, grabbing the fabric of her brother's cloak and tugging it forcefully. "Malique, a gypsy! God, Malique, it's there! It's there, and it wants us... It wants us, Malique!"

"What are you going on about, Ass-andra?" Malique asked, her tugging making it difficult to get is spoon to his mouth. "Not another one of your fantasies is it? I told you, keep me out of this shit! Stop that tugging unless you want another beating!"

"No, Malique," she screamed, wide-eyed, "you don't understand! He's there! In the shadows! Can't you see him? Malique, can't you see him?"

Malique, having had quite enough of this nonsense, pushed her away in anger and lifted another one of his angry fists to strike her. Cassandra looked up at him with pleading eyes, but of course, the bastard didn't give a horse's ass about her. He took her by the collar and stared into her eyes.

"I thought I told you to shut the hell up! Let me eat in piece you little bag of shit, before I get really angry! Stop muttering like an idiot, okay? I don't give a damn about your imagination, or your stories, or whatever crap you're coming up with!"

"But, Malique," she said, her voice suddenly taking a whisper, her eyes, for the first time, torn away from the gypsy man. "Malique, he's coming. He's trying to take his cart back, I know it."

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

"The gypsy!" She shrieked, hitting Malique with her foot in frustration. "You're such an idiot! He's here! He wants his caravan back, and it's all you're fault!"

Malique was very angry now.

"I'm going to _blind_ you this time, bitch!" He proclaimed irefully. He clenched his hands into an angry clasp, and yelled out. His fist began to speed toward Cassandra's face, and the young girl put her hand before her in fear. She shrieked at the sudden approach, but her own scream was soon a mere whisper, in comparison with her brother's frightened and surprised yelp.

Cassandra opened her eyes, which she had closed just seconds before, and lowered her hands, and saw, with a great deal of wonder and anxiety, her brother's hand hovering mere inches above the tip of her nose. But, it was not just hanging, as if the poor boy had been frozen, but it was stopped, Malique's wrist clutched tightly by the gloved fingers of a gypsy man.

His expression was grim, his face bearded, and frightening like the devil's. What was he doing here? In his eyes burned a sort of intolerance, and she could've sworn that he was angered more by her brother's actions than her own. She blinked. And when she opened her eyes, that expression had disappeared, and in its place was a charming smile and ever the twinkling eyes.

"Don't blind the little one, dear sir!" He said suddenly, his voice fluted and saccharine.

Malique, though frightened, tried to make it seem as not. He puffed out his chest in false bravery and, asked him with a stern and overly forced voice, "Why not? What reason have you for telling me what to do?"

"Because, if she were blind she couldn't see! And if she couldn't see, that means she can't see anything, including me! And she'd miss the wonderful show I've set for you!" He took his extra hand to his chin and glanced from beneath his pink mask at the stars above, as if in thought. "But, then again...half of it _is_ singing... But then she'd never be able to see the beautiful voice's handsome owner, which would be a complete and utter shame, wouldn't you agree?"

Malique stared at him in wonder, overly confused, and unsure if he should still be frightened. He glanced back at the caravan then at the gypsy, and in a sudden leap of courage, he pushed the gypsy toward the flames of the campfire. The man stopped just before the flames, though the edge of his shirt caught fire. It took a while for him to notice and resulted in his surprised screams and yelps for help. He finally put it out by slapping his hat against the spot. He stopped and sighed in relief, proclaiming to everyone that he was safe and that Malique ought to be a little bit more careful when handling guests. Cassandra lifted an eyebrow. Is this whom she had been frightened about?

"I guess you'll be wanting your damned wagon back, hm?" Malique asked, his grip on Cassandra's collar finally loosening itself. He took on a stance, ready to fight, and Cassandra watched him, hoping quietly that the thought wouldn't be entertained. The gypsy took a glance at him, a seemingly amused look on his face, and then he suddenly began to roar with laughter.

"That old thing?" He asked, clutching his sides. "Oh, by all means, burn it to the ground! But let me do my little show beforehand! It won't take too long, I assure you!"

"So," Cassandra asked warily, "you don't want to fight for it?"

"Fight for it?" The gypsy man asked, eyebrow lifted in confusion. Then, he began another fit of laughter and nearly fell to the ground for it. "Fight? Dear me child, but I never would, nor could for that matter, fight for it unless I wanted something broken, which I assure you child, I do not! Why, take a glance at me, then at your brother! I could never defeat this strong, masculine young man!"

He patted Malique on the back and continued giggling ridiculously as if it were all a complete and utter joke. Cassandra glanced at him and her brother as he was instructed (though she didn't say so) and lifted an eyebrow. He was right. He could never stand a match against Malique. But she had always thought those "muscles" that the gypsy had mentioned were naught but fat...

Malique smiled at the compliment beside himself, and returned the pat on the back, though with added strength in an attempt at harming the gypsy. But, had it hurt the man or not, he could not tell; the gypsy was much too busy laughing and seemed not to take notice at all.

"You know," Malique said, after the man had finally stopped, "if gypsies weren't disgusting and you weren't so ugly, I'd almost half like you!"

"That's the spirit!" The gypsy said, though Cassandra noticed a slight twitch in one of his eyes when he did. "So, how about it? Would you let me entertain you for a moment before you commit arson against my home?" Cassandra looked at him suspiciously. He seemed still happy, but she realized that that twitch had gotten worse after _that_ statement.

"What do you think, Cassandra?" Malique asked, grinning. "Should we let this gypsy coward amuse us before we burn his house down before his eyes?"

"I don't know, Malique..." Cassandra started slowly, glancing at the gypsy warily. "He might be planning something... I don't think we should."

"Planning something?" The gypsy asked, and yet _another_ fit of laughter came about. God, he laughed a lot. "What could _I_ possibly plan to make to thwart your clever brother?"

"I still don't think..."

Malique, who sure as hell wanted to see the gypsy make a fool of himself, growled lowly.

"Who asked you?" he turned back to the unnamed gypsy man, grinning widely. "Sure, gypsy. Entertain us."

"Perfect," the gypsy said, smiling mysteriously. Cassandra felt herself becoming uncomfortable as she looked into those two black eyes. "Absolutely perfect!"

A/N: And that ends the crap. I'm sorry for the weird writing style; I just want to get this done! Please review. MY ENGLISH TEACHER HATES ME!!!!!!!!!!! Next chapter es duh end.


	4. storytelling!

**Author's Note: Hello dellee! Bad song attempt coming up! **

**Just a warning. I am not the best of poets and, as I mentioned so many times before in most of my "literary" works, Mr. Neiby Camat Poto is _refusing_ to work with me! It makes me so ANGRY, but I guess this chapter is okay. I was hoping the fourth chapter was going to be the last, but then I got really annoyed and decided against it. Annoyed is another word for "lazy" if you don't know me well enough. So, here it is, the fourth chapter. READ AND REVIEW OR I WILL SIC MY HELL HOUND ON YOU!!!!!**

Clopin stood before the two "audience members" his lips curled into a smile fit for a madman, though inside he felt a pool of anger within him, bubbling like a stew in a cauldron. A stew that made him want to stick a knife down that fat assed man's throat and hang his sister upside down by her big toes from a cliff for a few hours, for good measure, if not for the sake of sadism. Clopin _did_ want to help the young girl, and wished sadly that there was _some_ way that he might help her find the strength to defeat her brother, but that was not a priority at the moment, nor was it truly a possible dream. After _this_ charade, he would have to avoid the siblings for at least a year or two, until there was a good chance that they had forgotten completely about him and what he had done. And anyway, as much as he wanted to seem friendly to them at the moment, she _was_ being a bit of an annoyance to his plan, having suggested against it twice already. But, that just meant she was a smart little lass. But nevertheless... he was just lucky that Malique was a complete and utter idiot to have acted accordingly. Ah well... scratch out that bit about wanting to hang her upside down. The poor girl's went through enough already.

"So, are we ready then?" Clopin asked, smiling widely, leaning forward, and putting his hands together. Malique nodded, leaning backwards on the caravan from his stool in an attempt at a tough appearance. Cassandra on the other hand showed no response, only staying by her horse, pulling her cloak closer about her, frowning deeply in annoyance and disapproval.

"Wonderful responses," Clopin said aloud, laughing, but inwardly frowning. They could at_ least_ show a little happiness for his contribution to their night. He _could_ have just let them burn his wagon down to the ground and ignored them completely, after all. See what he was doing for them, without their thanks or even approval? What an insult!

But he digressed. After all, he needed to get this started.

Suddenly, a somber look took the expression on his tanned face, his lips falling into a frown, his eyes grim and dark. Clopin bowed his head quietly, and let the brim of his currently crumpled hat cover the topmost half of his face, the fire casting eerie shadows upon his frowning mouth. He outstretched his hands to the sides, and bent his knees gently.

"There is a story that I would like to tell..." Clopin started, his words whispered audibly, but somehow loud and clarion despite the distinct crackling of the campfire. "It would not be considered an 'epic' by most, besides a few small circles ((Hello, Emily!)), but it remains still so very close to my heart. It is a tale, a tale of pain, of sadness, of fright, of horrible, nightmare inducing discomfort, but mostly, it is a tale about..."

Here, Clopin took a dramatic pause and lifted his head to the sky, staring up at the twinkling stars, their gentle, far away glow reflected in his ebony eyes. Cassandra leaned in quietly, an interest arousing within her childish soul. She _did_ feel a discomfort toward Malique's instant trust toward this colorful gypsy man, and wished somewhat against the whole thing, but she couldn't do anything about it, could she? So, as the saying went, "If you can't beat them, join them", right? Besides, it was beginning to sound a bit fascinating, this tale of pain and discomfort...

"It is a tale about..." Clopin began again, his eyes breaking away from the sparkling sky, "Bad Weather."

Cassandra shot backwards in her seat, teetering on the edge of an _anime dropdown_. Bad Weather? What was that about? What kind of good, respectable story was about, no matter _how_ annoying, something so simple and stupid? She straightened herself out after knocking the back of her head on her horse's knee, drawing a neigh of discomfort from the old mare. She patted the horse gently on the leg, whispering gentle apologies to her mistake, and turned back to the scene before her, shaking her head.

Malique, on the other hand, was annoyed about the subject as well, but was so much more verbal about it. He scoffed it completely.

"What the hell kind of story is _that_, Gypsy?" he asked. "Even _I_ can write a story about bad weather, easy! And it would probably be better than this!"

"That last comment was uncalled for, mon ami. How can you say such a thing?" Clopin asked, mock sadness in his fluted voice. "Besides, we are only at the beginning. You shall see significance, perhaps, later on... when I'm actually _telling_ the story."

Malique just released a sharp breath of air, rolled his eyes, and motioned for the gypsy to continue. Cassandra moaned, leaning her head down so that her hood covered her face. Her brother was _such_ an _asshole_.

"Bad weather..." Clopin restarted, holding back a quiet glare that was _mysteriously_ drawn toward the pig with clothes, "It is the bane of all working people, more of a nuisance than anything else, drawing forth even destruction. This is the story of such a bout of bad weather... a rainstorm, actually, one that lasted for so long. This is the story of the last day of that rain..."

So, Clopin tapped his foot on the ground, and did a fantastic, high flip backward, landing squarely on a stick jutting out, untouched, from the fire. This force started a small chain reaction, the limb resting on another to create some sort of a teeter totter effect, sending another flaming piece of wood flying through the air, the unmarred end finding its way in Clopin's gloved hand.

"Look at it... fire... this stick had more flame than what I had during this tale..."

And with that, he licked a finger and pinched the flickering flame into nonexistence. He did a sudden twirl, his movements so fast that he seemed no more than a blur, and in his hands, the second he stopped, was a dusty old violin and it s bow. Clopin had found it, in his caravan, from the days when he was but a young lad, traveling Spain. He had completely forgotten about it for so long, but it would come in handy at the moment. He plucked a few notes on the old violin, then, brought the bow to the fiddle, he began to saw a sudden tune from the strings.

It was a lively melody, sweet, ingenious, full of life. Spicy and impish, like the gypsy who played it, his fingers moving quickly upon the neck of the violin. Malique sat up straighter in his chair, interested, and Cassandra followed suit. The gypsy began to dance suddenly, as quickly as the music that spilled from his violin strings, laughter escaping his mouth.

_The rain was falling loudly_

_And the sane men all would stay_

_In their warm and comfy quarters,_

_But I went out anyway!_

Cassandra lifted an eyebrow at his mention of "I". So, this story was about him?

_Perhaps I didn't notice _

_All the puddles at my toes_

_Or the rain that fell in droplets_

_Ever dampening my nose._

_But I left, and waited, sighing_

_For the children to appear_

_But the rain fell, far from dying, _

_And the skies stayed ever drear._

_So I drank myself straight silly _

_To ignore the pouring rain,_

_And the sound of clinking bottles_

_Soon monopolized my brain._

_A drunk man's lullaby it was_

_And my eyes rolled slowly back. _

_I slept upon the floorboards_

_And, I let my mind go slack._

Clopin's melody had been changing throughout the song with each verse. The same melody, played slowly and sadly, next a drunken quickness, then a tired sluggishness that passed over his face. Cassandra listened with more interest. It was a beautiful melody, and he played out the song and intertwined the tune and mood perfectly.

_I was torn from dreams so lovely_

_By a horse's clopping hoof._

_I could barely hear the pounding _

_Of the raindrops on my roof. _

_For the wine was strong and hearty_

_So my head had hurt like hell,_

_And I cursed the horse's walking_

_And its owner's head as well._

_I had opened up the doorway_

_Feeling cold as witches' tits,_

_Bent on getting back to _Le cour

_But I quickly lost my wits!_

_For no cobblestones had met me,_

_Nor the solid city street_

_But the mud and grass of wilderness_

_Almost sullied both my feet!_

Cassandra's eyes opened wider. Interesting verse... so he had been taken away from the city out into the wilderness... There was something rather fascinating, not to mention _familiar _about the whole thing... Something _very_ familiar...

_Where the hell was I, I wondered_

_As I clutched my beating chest, _

_And I hyperventilated,_

_My heart pumping in my breast._

_But I heard a pair of voices_

_And I rushed along to hide_

_On my wagon's cold wet rooftop._

_How I wish I stayed inside!_

_For the rain fell down so hardly_

_And to add along to that, _

_I was dying from my headache,_

_I destroyed my favorite hat!_

And with that, he pointed vehemently at his crumpled purple cap, a frown taking his mouth for a second or two.

_But I waited 'til the night fell_

_And the rain had ceased its fall_

_When the moon was out and glowing_

_And had cast its silver pall_

_When the fire was warm and blazing_

_(How I wish I had just that)_

_Just to jump into the mud bath_

_And to straighten out my hat._

Cassandra listened closely, watching from beneath the edge of her cowl, her fingers weaved together in interest. She knew... she knew what he was talking about, this last storm day, watching as he flipped about, and sawed his fiddle happily. There was laughter in his eyes, but there was also an underlying anger... she could sense it every time he cast a glance at her brother. Whether or not Malique caught the story that he was telling, she could not tell, though she thought it would be rather difficult not to know. But Malique's expression did not reveal anything.

_And I sang, I did, I sang loud_

_And I told my story here, _

_To a brother, strong and, er, handsome,_

_With his lovely sister dear..._

Clopin stopped his fiddle playing and lowered his violin so that it nearly fell to the ground from his loosening fingers. He walked gently toward Cassandra, who sat closest to the white stallion and his caravan. He smiled at her and leaned down so they were face to face, and his eyes took a deep glance into her overshadowed own.

Cassandra felt so uncomfortable that moment, when he stooped over and looked past the shadows into her eyes, blocking the flickering of the fire from her view. She sensed that he didn't want to hurt her, that he wanted to tell her something with that glance... to be brave? No... she felt that message, but would that make sense? Why would this gypsy tell her to be brave... Did he understand?

_And as I relive this story,_

_I release a plaintive sigh..._

_For this night is ending quickly..._

His smile became ever the wider, and Cassandra had near lost herself in his eyes. She was so young a girl... she had never understood a feeling like the one she felt now... she had never had a beat in her heart that went so quickly as it did... what was happening? There were messages in his eyes, those gentle pools of coal black with diamonds half-hidden in the darkness...

_And I must now... _

Clopin hoped quietly that she got what he was trying to tell her... He reached for the stallion's reins...

_Say..._

He lifted a foot to the holder that hung off the saddle, readying himself.

Suddenly, from behind he could hear Malique spluttering for words. Oh yes, Clopin thought, shaking his head. He forgot that there were _two_ people there. Cassandra may have been a little preoccupied; Malique had a perfect view of what he was doing from behind. Cassandra shook her head, as if coming out of a trance, and glanced up at Clopin in wonder. He grinned sheepishly, and, with a last glance at Malique, and a poke on the Cassandra's cheek with his nose, he pulled himself up onto the saddle in the blink of an eye, and kicked the horse in the flank.

The steed neighed loudly, and started sprinting off, the caravan trailing, bumping behind.

_GOODBYE!!!!!_

Clopin screamed back happily, and laughing like a madman, he pulled the reins, turning the horse and carriage round, and rushed back, wind screaming at them, back to Paris.

**Author's Note: Woo! The end of the fourth chapter! I will work on the fifth when I'm not bored anymore! YAY! I'm thinking on restarting on the Hawaiian and the Hunchback, so it might take a while! Sorry! Now you REVIEW! Or else I'll start crying and Cerberus will have a new chew toy... okay, I can't threaten you, because that's wrong and mean and evil... But please. Me es desperate. So very desperate.**


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